When he wakes up, she’s gone.

She never stays.

He fights the urge to sigh unhappily, a part of him pointing out that he should’ve been used to this by now. It’s their unspoken agreement – their default arrangement – after all. But he’s a hopeless romantic – more hopeless than romantic, it seems – and he can’t stop himself from wanting to believe that maybe, just maybe, she is his happily ever after.

He gets up from his bed sluggishly, pointedly ignoring the side of the bed that she occupied merely hours ago. He fights to supress the hazy memories of the night that has passed. He knows it won’t help but, like an addict and his , he loses the fight and the details flit through his mind.

Sweet kisses.

Gentle caresses.

Breathy moans.

Names escaping parted lips.

Bliss. Seemingly unending bliss.

Running a way hand down his face, he trudges to the other side of the room towards the bathroom, pushing the door open without much energy or enthusiasm. He absently flicks the lights on and abruptly freezes when he sees the stain on the mirror.